


5 Times They Weren't Out of Butter

by sconelover



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 5+1 Things, Baz is losing it, Butter, Butter Bath, Buying Too Much Butter, Crack Fic, Crackhead energy, Don't read this if you're lactose intolerant, Getting Creative with Butter, Gift Fic, I can't believe it's Butter, M/M, Maybe in the sequel, Not Safe For the Kitchen, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Simon Snow Loves Butter, Simon doing absolutely despicable things with butter, Simon's Obsession with Butter, There's no on-screen butter sex sorry, Well a reference to it at least, butter sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25552546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover
Summary: … and one time they were. Copious amounts of butter have been acquired. Simon has to make good use of it all. Baz is resigned to his imminent buttery demise.Selkie made someincredible fanartfor this because she's an amazing human!!!
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 30
Kudos: 162





	5 Times They Weren't Out of Butter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unenthusiastic_mermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unenthusiastic_mermaid/gifts).



> Dear Selkie, this work contains 164 mentions of the word “butter,” many of them in contexts where butter should never make an appearance.  
> I wanted to gift this to you to thank you for being such an amazing person, friend, and artist! You never fail to light up my day with your cheer, humor, and adorable marshmallows. You’ve brought some of my works to life with your art in the most gorgeous and wonderful of ways. I’ve loved getting to know you over the past few months!  
>   
> I'm also going to dedicate this fic to everyone who participated in nsfw butter discussions on the discord. I love you all. Thank you for inspiring my brain’s nonsense. 😂 
> 
> Without further ado, please accept this absolute crackhead butter fic. Hope you enjoy! ❤️
> 
> Feel free to come scream at me about butter on [tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/scone-lover)

**Prologue**

**Baz**

I’m at the supermarket with a trolley full of the week’s things when I spot a sign stuck to the glass in the refrigerated aisle.

_BUTTER - ON SALE NOW!_

Why on earth would butter be on sale? It’s not as if it expires very quickly…

I open the glass door and peer inside, only to be shocked by the absolutely massive sticks of butter within. They’re double the width of normal butter, like some sort of frankenbutter merger experiment. There are stacks and stacks of them, taking up three entire shelves. An army of gargantuan butter sticks, on a mission to conquer the grocery shop.

Simon would have a field day.

The prices _are_ excellent… and we could keep some of them in the freezer; we likely have space. Just the look on Simon’s face when I bring these home is enough for me to reach out and take one. It’s heavy in my palm, larger than my entire hand—it must be half a kilogram alone.

The sale sign catches my eye again. They only cost £1.50 each, somehow. _Must buy multiples of four._

Two kilos of butter.

I have no doubt Simon will make use of it all, but still. It’s an absurd amount of butter, even for him. I sigh and take four sticks. And then, noting how far away the expiration date is, pile another four into the trolley.

Four kilos of butter.

I feel like a numpty when I pile the eight humongous blocks of butter onto the conveyer belt, but the cashier compliments me on taking advantage of the sale, so I try for a smile. It ends up being more of a grimace. _(I swear, my idiotic boyfriend is the insane butter fiend, not me.)_

Truly, who loves butter that much? I suppose I can understand the value of butter inside food or baked treats, but sometimes Simon slices off a piece and eats it raw…

I suppress a shudder as I accept my grocery bag, which is now heavy as fuck because of the _four kilos of butter inside._

He’ll be happy. That’s the only thing that keeps me from regretting this buttery, unwieldy, £12 decision. 

Simon and Penelope are sitting at the counter when I come in, eating biscuits and talking about city pigeons, for some reason. “They just look squishy–” he’s saying.

“In what universe are pigeons _squishy?”_

“Hello,” I say as I set the bag down with a _thunk._ I start unloading the groceries onto the counter. First the fruits, vegetables, pasta… and then the massive butter sticks. 

I set the first one on the counter. Now that I’m here in the small flat and not in the hallowed aisles of Tesco, the block of butter seems immense and terrifying. It takes up more than its fair share of counter space. I’m not even sure all eight of them will _fit_ in the fridge… 

Penny’s brow creases. “What is that?” 

Simon leans forward. “Is that butter?”

I don’t respond, just take out another stick. And six more.

Simon’s eyes are like saucers. “Baz, what–”

I hold up a hand. “They were on sale.”

“This is ridiculous,” Penny says. She’s trying to look stern, but she’s holding back a laugh.

Simon’s grinning. “This is brill.”

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“What in Merlin’s name are we going to do with this much butter?”

Simon leans forward and gathers it up in his arms like he’s the cookie monster. “Don’t worry. I’ll use it all.”

* * *

**1.**

**Simon**

It’s been a little over a week since Baz brought home four kilos of butter. Considering how much he teases me for my butter obsession, it was truly an act of love. I’ve been going through it like crazy and baking up a storm.

Penny’s poring over the grocery list as I push the trolley, ticking things off with a miniature pencil. “Brown sugar?”

“Got it.”

“Vegetables—broccoli, bell peppers, onions, and… what the hell, Basil,” she mutters.

“Basil?”

She snorts. “No. Though that reminds me, let’s pick some up for pasta tonight.”

“Basil for Basil,” I hum as I reach for a little packet of herbs.

Penny grumbles, “Baz wrote _haricots verts_ on this list, because apparently he’s too posh to put the names of vegetables in English now.”

“What’s a hairy… what?”

“Green beans,” she says, rolling her eyes. We grab the vegetables and head to the dairy aisle to pick up parmesan cheese. “See anything else we need?”

My eyes alight on one of the shelves. “Yeah! Butter.”

Penny puts a hand on the trolley to stop me. “We are most definitely _not_ out of butter. Baz literally bought eight blocks. There’s no way we’ve gone through those.”

“We _are_ out of butter,” I insist. “Because I’ve used it all.”

“You haven’t.”

“I _have._ I’ve made scones, a pie—do you know how much butter pies use?—a roast chicken, and chocolate chip cookies.” I tick the items off on my fingers. “Not to mention Baz made that fancy lemon-butter sauce the other night.”

Penny looks skeptical.

“I went to use some for my eggs this morning, and there was none in the fridge,” I say. “If you don’t believe me, feel free to call Baz and ask him to check—I’m sure he’ll be so happy about his study group being interrupted–”

Penny harrumphs and throws up her hands. “Fine. Go ahead and buy the butter, then.”

I pick up one pack with four regular-sized sticks inside, and then on second thought, another—it’s not as if butter goes bad.

We get home and start unloading the groceries, and Baz comes in a few minutes later with a stack of papers under his arm. “Is that butter?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “We were out.”

He stares at me for a long moment. “No, we’re not,” he says slowly.

“What do you mean? I didn’t see any in the fridge.”

Penny shoots me a glare as if to say, _I told you so._

Baz opens his mouth, closes it, then sets his papers down. “Simon…” His face takes on an expression of exasperated amusement. It’s one he wears often around me. “It’s in the freezer,” he says.

_Oh._

I stare back at him for a long moment. Then look down at the eight sticks of butter I just bought. “Er…”

Baz and and Penny start laughing, and I dip my head in embarrassment. Baz comes up and hugs me from behind, ruffling my hair. “You’re a disaster. Did you really think you’d used all four kilos of butter?”

“It’s possible…” I mutter. 

“He had me convinced,” Penny notes.

Baz crosses the kitchen and opens the freezer, then holds back another laugh as he closes it. “You’ve used _two.”_

“Only two?!” 

There’s no way.

“Do you even know how to count, Simon?” Penny asks.

“I did well in maths,” I defend. “And I bake all the time!”

“Apparently a basic understanding of butter amounts is too much, though,” Baz says, holding up several remaining blocks. They look like bricks. Frozen, gigantic, buttery bricks.

“Shut up, both of you.” I made so many baked goods this week. I don’t understand how I could have only used two blocks. I was so sure I’d gone through it all…

“I can’t believe this,” Baz says. He’s still trying not to smile. “I can’t believe you thought we were _out_ of butter.”

“I stand by my decision,” I say. (I don’t, but I’m mortified and won’t admit it. I have to protect the butter.)

“So now we have…” Penny scans the counter. “Fourteen sticks of butter. Eight regular ones, and six double ones. Which means it’s really the equivalent of _twenty_ sticks of butter.” She laughs again. “Nicks and Slick, Simon.”

“How is this my fault?”

“It’s entirely your fault,” Baz says.

“If anything, it’s Baz’s fault for buying _four kilos_ of butter last week, like a madman.”

“I suppose we could vanish some,” Penny muses.

The horror. The scandal. I push the butter across the counter before she can reach for it and walk around to start loading it into the fridge. “We’re not _vanishing_ anything! You can’t waste good butter!”

“Really, you can’t make jokes like that, Bunce,” Baz says, casually leaning against the wall. “Simon takes his butter very seriously.”

“I’ll use it all,” I promise.

“What are you going to do, bathe in it?” Baz says.

I look up. “Now that’s an idea…”

He presses two fingers to his temple. _“Please_ do not take a bath in the butter, Simon.”

“This will last us a year,” Penny complains. “Maybe two.”

“I’ll get creative.”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “Creative? There are only so many things you can do with butter.”

He’s wrong. There are _plenty_ of things you can do with butter.

* * *

**2.**

**Baz**

There’s a note tacked on the fridge when I get home. _running, then going 2 grocery shop, txt me if u need anything_

I peel the note off and stare in horror at what’s before me.

What fresh hell have I landed in? Is this some alternate universe where sellotape and magnets don’t exist? I shudder and back away slowly from the fridge, cursing when my hip hits the counter.

The note was stuck to the fridge with _butter._

I look down in disgust at the note in my hand, which has now coated my fingers in softened butter. I flick the paper off into the bin, then rinse my hands.

I suppose when I told Simon that there are only so many things one can do with butter, he took it as a challenge. Merlin help me.

He texts me a few minutes later. **did you get my note?**

 **Yes, and what the fuck,** I text back. **Have you never heard of fridge magnets?**

 **~creativity~** , is Simon’s idea of an acceptable response.

I open the fridge to check if we need anything. My eyes are drawn to the middle shelf, which currently houses around eight sticks of butter. I snort, then reach for my phone again—and notice butter all over it.

What the fuck?

There’s butter on my hands again.

Aleister _fucking_ Crowley. I wash them _again,_ then spray down the entire front of the fridge and the handle and clean them thoroughly. Then I wipe down my phone and call Simon.

“Hey,” he says. I hear ambient noise in the background, wheels rolling. “I’ve got Penny’s list for this week. Need anything else?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s very important, so listen closely.”

The wheels come to a halt. “Okay. What is it?”

“Seriously, it’s quite sensitive information…”

“Baz, what are you on about? Do you need, er–”

“I have blood,” I tell him, before he yells it out to the entire grocery shop. “No, this is more important. Are you ready?”

He hums impatiently. “Just tell me already.”

“Okay,” I say in a low tone. “Prepare yourself.”

“Baz, really–”

“We’re… out of butter.”

Silence.

If Simon could see the shit-eating grin on my face right now, he’d scowl and bluster. I cover my mouth to stop myself from laughing.

He laughs. “Good one.”

“I’m perfectly serious,” I say, channeling my years of practice masking any and all emotion from my tone. “Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“Baz,” he says. “We are _not_ out of butter. I kept track this time!”

“So little faith in me,” I sigh.

“Really,” he says. “I saw it in the fridge this morning! We’re not really out, are we?”

“No, we’re _out of butter._ Despite the fact that we have three kilos of it in the fridge…”

“Oh, I _hate_ you!” he says, laughing.

“Hate you too,” I say cheerfully. “Oh, but we actually do need milk.”

“Okay,” he says with another laugh. “See you at home. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

* * *

**3.**

**Baz**

“Simon?” 

I know he’s home—his keys are sitting out on the counter, and his one pair of shoes is by the door—but I can’t find him anywhere. I open the door to his room. “Simon?”

I notice a note taped to the fridge and chuckle. Penelope’s handwriting: _We’re out of butter, Simon._

We are most definitely not out of butter. Though when I open the refrigerator, I see that two of the blocks are missing. And no one seems to have cooked anything today…

_Where the hell did the butter go?_

Simon picks up after a few rings. “Hi. Are you here?”

“Yes, where are you?”

I hear a small splashing noise. “I’m in the bath,” he says, and then in an utterly delectable tone, “Care to join me?”

It’s been a long day, and I’ll never say no to a naked, wet, bubble-covered Simon. I strip in his room, wrap a towel around my waist, and cross the hall to the toilet.

Simon’s waiting for me, his eyes on me the moment I arrive. He shoots a devastating grin in my direction, kicking his feet a bit in the water. “Come on, then,” he says.

I drop the towel and walk up to the edge of the tub, but the water looks strange… not like normal bath bubbles. Not like bath salts, either. It has more of a milky quality to it, or almost oily…

And then I notice the rectangular yellow bars bobbing at the surface of the water.

I gasp and take a step back.

“What?” he asks innocently.

I point at the water. “You– that– that’s–”

“Is something the matter?” He’s smirking sweetly at me, mischief in his eyes.

“You’re–” My mouth works to form the words, but I can’t even begin to comprehend the absurdity of this situation. Finally, I burst out, “You’re bathing in butter!”

Simon moves his arms around happily, causing the sticks of butter to swirl in lazy circles. “And what of it?”

I scramble to pick up my towel. Fuck, this is my own doing. My regret bobs to the surface, much like the blocks of butter in Simon’s bath. My own words are echoing cruelly in my mind: _What are you going to do, bathe in it?_

“That’s disgusting.”

“You _said_ to get creative,” he says. “And it feels nice. Moisturising. Like those fancy lotions you have, except it’s only three quid per kilo…”

“This is _not_ what I meant by creative. This is horrifying.” 

“You have bath things with all sorts of food in them,” he insists. “Look at this one. Oranges and vanilla. Both foods.”

“Not bloody _butter.”_

He picks up another jar. “Strawberries and cream. Cream! That’s practically butter!” 

I sigh heavily and make for the door, but Simon calls after me in a sing-song tone. “Ba-az.”

I roll my eyes, but stop. “What?”

“Come in with me. Please?”

I turn around. “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m getting in that tub with you.”

“It’s really nice!” he insists. “Slippery, too, if you get my meaning…”

I nearly gag. “We are not having sex in the buttery tub.”

“It’s like a natural lubricant!”

“Merlin’s fucking beard, _no._ That’s appalling, not to mention unsanitary.”

“I’ll lick it all off you later.”

“That’s–” I shove the image from my mind. Simon licking any part of me is entirely erotic, but _not when I’m covered in disgusting buttery water._ “No.”

The butter’s almost entirely melted now, forming foamy white patterns on the surface of the water. Simon swirls his arms around, then licks his finger, making a show of it. I cringe, acting dramatically disgusted.

I’m embarrassingly turned on.

He sends me his most dreamy-eyed look, and I grumble and drop my towel.

Simon shifts and makes space for me to sit between his legs. “I knew you’d come around,” he says.

art by [subpar-selkie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/subpar-selkie/624843973171740672)

* * *

**4.**

**Simon**

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Penny says, slinging her purse over one shoulder. 

Baz and I are cuddled up lazily on the sofa. “Make sure you bring some butter,” he says.

Penny snorts. “What?”

“Stop it,” I complain.

Baz sits up, causing me to nearly fall off the couch. “We’re out of butter,” he says with a perfect poker face.

Penny drums her fingers impatiently against the doorknob. “We’re _not.”_

Baz looks at me with an evil grin on his face. “No, we are definitely out of butter. I could swear it.”

I kick at him, and he elbows me back.

“Because obviously it’s possible to go through eight sticks of butter in one week,” he continues, casually fending my attacks off with one supernaturally strong arm, “as Simon could tell you.”

“Shut up,” I growl, and he pushes me right off the couch. “Hey!”

Penny’s laughing. “Of course, we’ve clearly gone through it all.”

“All six kilos,” Baz says.

I lay my head back on the rug, resigned. I’ll never hear the end of this. The Great Butter Crisis. Buttergate. Whatever the opposite of a butter famine is.

“Wanker,” I say when the door shuts.

Baz stands up and steps over my legs without a second look back. “You want food? Tea?” He turns, then, and raises an eyebrow. “Butter, straight up?”

I cover my face with my hands. “Yes, that’s the perfect snack. A stick of butter.”

He’s silent for a moment, then says with a heavy sigh, “That wasn’t even sarcasm, was it.”

“Nope.”

We still have three of the humongous blocks left and all eight of the regular ones. It feels like no matter how much butter I use, no matter how many things I attempt to cook and bake, there’s always more. The butter is endless. The butter is unstoppable.

Not that I’m complaining; I love butter. It’s delicious and creamy, and Baz bought the salted kind. I _could_ eat it straight up, like he said. Maybe I should…

I push myself up from the floor. “I’ll make scones.”

“You made scones yesterday.” He points to a container on the counter.

I heat them up, then take out a stick of butter and cut off a sizeable chunk. The upside to this is that no one can shame me for the amount of butter I eat with my scones. (At this point, I think I’ve got more butter than scone.)

Baz only takes the tiniest sliver, and I roll my eyes. “You could at least try to do your part.”

“It sticks to my fangs,” he claims.

“I don’t believe you. You just want an excuse to not help me eat all of this.”

He gestures pointedly at the scone in front of him. (It’s the smallest one. Practically half a scone.) “I eat everything you bake. It all includes butter. Anyway, there’s no rush.”

“It expires, doesn’t it?”

“It lasts _months.”_

I stir my tea, then say, “You know, people are putting butter in coffee nowadays.”

Baz chokes on his tea. “Coffee? Crowley, is nothing sacred?”

I shrug. “It’s called bulletproof coffee. Don’t think it’s actually bulletproof, just super high in calories or something.”

He shudders. “Don’t bring that anywhere near me. In fact, don’t even make it in this flat. Don’t even _think_ about it in this flat.”

“We have all the ingredients,” I say, pulling up a recipe on Google. “Anyway, it’s not even your flat—you have no authority here.”

“Who do you think cleans this place?” he says.

 _“Magic,”_ I say. “Magic cleans it. You don’t do shit.”

Baz shakes his head and takes another bite of scone. 

When Penny gets home a few minutes later, she drops a box on the coffee table. “I got us a new board game.”

Baz’s face falls. “You forgot the most important purchase.”

“What?”

“Butter.”

I groan and bash my head into his shoulder, and he laughs, and Penny opens the fridge and takes a stick of butter and throws it at us. “There’s your butter!”

Baz catches it and balances it carefully on my head. “There we go.”

“A place for everything and everything in its place,” Penny agrees.

“You look adorable,” Baz says.

“I hate you both,” I grumble.

* * *

**5.**

**Baz**

We’re _still_ not out of butter.

I know, because Simon has been getting increasingly _creative_ with his butter usage—the other day, he melted it and put it in an old mustard bottle to use as some sort of condiment-syrup concoction. Luckily there haven’t been any more toilet-butter instances, but I’d not put it past him. (He enjoyed the butter bath far more than I did. I shudder at the memory. I didn’t feel clean for _days_ afterwards.)

He even suggested fashioning one of the frozen sticks of butter into a sex toy, which I shut down instantly. _(“Butter plug, it sounds close enough to butt plug,”_ he said, if I recall correctly. Which I do, because it’s fucking burned into my brain.)

It’s early morning, and Simon’s not in bed. Penelope’s out of town, which leaves me free to roll out of the covers and walk directly into the kitchen in nothing but my pants.

I’m met by the splendid sight of a mostly-naked Simon (with his back halfway to me, which means a lovely view of his arse in profile), and I almost greet him before I notice what he’s holding.

An entire stick of butter. (One of the normal-sized ones, thank Merlin.)

And what he’s doing to it.

He’s _licking_ it.

I watch in morbid fascination as he licks at the top of the butter. His hair’s messy, his eyes sleepy, his tongue pink as it darts out smoothly over the surface. 

And then he wraps his lips around the top and starts _sucking_ on the butter like an ice lolly (...or something else). He hums in contentment and takes it in further, still oblivious to my presence. His eyes closed, his lips sliding up and down the stick of butter… it’s exceedingly pornographic. 

I’m hard. I’m hard because Simon fucking Snow is _deepthroating a stick of butter._

For the love of _Country Life,_ what have I ever done to deserve this?

An involuntary sound escapes my throat and Simon finally notices me. He freezes with wide eyes and pulls off the butter with a _pop._

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I just take a step closer.

“Morning,” he says affably. He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“What the fuck,” I breathe.

“Morning,” he says again. He takes another casual lick of the butter, and I make a strangled sort of sound. His gaze flickers downward. “Baz?”

“Yes?”

“Is that a stick of butter in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”

I groan at his terrible joke and haul him into a bruising kiss in answer.

Simon tastes horrifying, like… well, like butter. The texture is revolting, kind of slimy and fatty.

I hate myself.

Well, that wouldn’t be quite accurate.

I hate the fact that I’m utterly, shamefully turned on by the sight of my boyfriend eating a stick of butter plain, like an _animal._

There’s nothing sexual about butter. (There’s everything sexual about the way he was eating it.)

The most ridiculous thing is, he didn’t know I was going to be there. He wasn’t even putting on a show. That’s just how this moron eats butter, apparently.

Who eats butter plain? Who eats butter like _that?_

I groan into Simon’s mouth, and I’m not sure if it’s in arousal or frustration at what has caused said arousal. A bit of both, I suppose.

I pull away to breathe and say, “You’re disgusting,” and kiss him again. And then _he_ pulls away, and I say, “What the hell were you even doing?”

“I was eating butter,” he says, as if this is an everyday, commonplace occurrence. Maybe it is, for him. Maybe I’ve been missing out on the appallingly erotic sight of Simon giving blowjobs to butter for years…

They had dishes of butter at Watford. Spreadable. You couldn’t just pick it up and start sucking it off. Maybe I should ban sticks of butter from this flat after these are all gone. I’m torn between never wanting to see this sight again and wanting to see it all the time.

Maybe it’s just because it’s Simon, and it’s Simon’s mouth, and it’s Simon’s mouth performing an action on something that’s not _me,_ in a situation where I would very much like that stick of butter to be _me._

“That’s how you eat butter?” I murmur into his ear.

He pulls back and stammers. “It’s– It’s the most efficient way, innit?”

“I reckon the most efficient way would be to just take a bite,” I say, and then instantly regret it when he raises the stick of butter to his lips again. “Crowley, that was _not_ a suggestion.”

Simon maintains a cheeky sort of eye contact with me as he once again sensually wraps his lips around the stick of butter… and then bites right through it. I flinch violently, involuntarily. 

He laughs, nearly choking on the chunk of butter in his mouth, and then I’m laughing, and this is all so ridiculous and we’re in our _pants_ in the _kitchen_ and Simon’s got a mouthful of plain butter, and–

And he’s kissing me again. His mouth half open, his tongue sliding against mine. And then I suddenly feel something solid and cold being pushed into my mouth. I jerk back so quickly Simon stumbles, and I resist the urge to stick out my tongue and wipe at it with my palms, like in a cartoon.

“You’re a nightmare,” I gasp out, reaching for a napkin, and he cackles.

“Let’s go back to bed, Baz,” he says with a nearly devious look. “I’ve been practicing my… technique.”

“No. Absolutely not,” I say, shaking my head. This is the first and (hopefully) only time I’ll have to refuse an offer of a blowjob. “You’ll get me all buttery.”

“Exactly. It’ll be delicious,” he says. “Like an ice cream, but better.”

I might actually vomit. I can’t believe those words are forming in those patterns and actually coming out of his mouth. I take another step away. “You can’t suck me off. Not until you brush your teeth.”

“Don’t act like you’re doing _me_ a favour.”

I pivot on my heel and start walking back to the bedroom. “I am. My prick is a gift, Simon. Never forget it.”

He huffs and I hear him open the fridge, hopefully to put the half-eaten butter away. The door opens a minute later and I look up in anticipation.

Except.

Except he’s still holding the stick of butter. He climbs on top of me carefully, straddling my thighs, and holds up the offending cultured dairy product. 

“What are you doing?” I say.

“D’you remember the time,” he says, “when you asked if you could give me a hickey on every single one of my moles, and I said yes?”

 _That_ was a fun night. “Yes? Your point?”

Simon waggles the butter in the air. “My point is, we all have our kinks. And if yours is popped blood vessels or whatever, mine is _butter.”_

“That’s not how kinks work–”

He presses a finger to my lips, and I fall silent. “My two favourite things,” he says. “You, and butter. Say yes. Please?”

I close my eyes. I can’t resist Simon—not really, not ever. “Okay.”

I’m going to regret this for the rest of my indeterminably long life. 

I hope we run out of butter soon.

* * *

**And one time they were.**

**Simon**

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m pulling out the ingredients for scones when I stop short at the refrigerator. That’s odd. I open the freezer. Nothing.

We’re finally out of butter.

“Penny,” I call.

She looks up from the couch. “What?”

“We’re out of butter.”

She snorts. “Okay, sure.”

“No, really.”

“Simon, we’ve teased you about it enough. You should know better than to do this _again.”_

“I’m serious!” I insist. I open the freezer again and rifle through it, but there’s no butter to be found.

“Baz,” she calls, and he appears from my doorway a moment later. “We’re out of butter.”

He starts laughing. “Of course we are.”

“We are!” I say.

“But listen here,” Penny says in a mock-serious tone. “We’re _out_ of butter.”

“Oh,” Baz says solemnly. “It all makes sense now. We’re out of _butter.”_

“Guys, stop it,” I say, crossing my arms. “We are actually out of butter.”

“What’d you say?” Penny asks. “Something about butter?”

“I think that’s exactly what we need,” Baz says. “More butter.”

I huff. “Yes, that’s what I’m _saying.”_

They both break out into laughter, and I groan, wrenching open the fridge once more. “Take a look for yourself, then! We’re out of butter!”

“I understand perfectly now,” Baz says, walking over and peering into the fridge. “Although we have four kilos of butter, we should definitely buy two more.”

“No! We’re out!” I say, slamming the fridge shut. Penny’s laughing so hard I’m not sure anyone can hear me. “I’m going to the shop.”

“Please do _not_ buy more butter,” Baz says, suddenly sincere. His eyes are wide with something like fear, or horror. “Please, Simon.” I grab a bag and start walking towards the door. He reaches out and grips my wrist. “Please,” he says again.

I turn, smirking. “I’ve never heard you beg this much, Pitch.”

He looks down. “Haven’t you?” he murmurs.

“Nicks and Slick,” Penny mutters. “Do I need to leave?”

“No,” I say.

“You never subjected me to buttery…” Baz glances at Penny. “Escapades. Before.”

“I didn’t _subject_ you,” I say. “I offered. And you agreed. Enthusiastically.”

“With all the enthusiasm of a mutinous pirate walking the plank,” he deadpans.

Where does he even come up with this stuff? “Listen, do you lot want scones or not?” 

“I’ll gladly give up scones—gladly!” Baz says. “If it means no more _butter bathtubs,_ ever again.”

Penny stares at me. “Butter bathtubs?”

“It was _one time,”_ I say, gritting my teeth. “And _I_ want scones, so.”

Penny huffs. “Stop arguing, you two.” She gets up and looks into the fridge, then the freezer, then turns around and chuckles again. “I can’t believe it,” she says.

“Let me guess,” Baz drawls. “We’re out of butter.”

“We’re out of butter,” she repeats.

“We’re out of butter!” I practically yell. “Thank you! I’m going now.”

Baz won’t let go of my wrist. He takes hold of my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Promise me,” he says urgently. “No butter bathtubs. No butter… plugs. No butter in mustard bottles, and no squeezing the butter out of mustard bottles into _coffee_ or _tea_ or bloody _cocktails!_ No butter in the bedroom, _ever._ No deepthroating butter in the kitchen–”

 _“What?”_ Penny chokes out. “I really didn’t need to hear that.’

“I wasn’t _deepthroating_ it,” I say.

“Then what exactly were you doing, because it’s been months and you’ve still given no explanation–”

“Just eating butter!” I say.

“Quite a perverted way to eat butter, if you ask me.”

“There’s no right or wrong way to eat butter,” I scowl. “Who made you the butter expert?”

“I’m leaving,” Penny says, standing up. “You two just– settle this. Buy whatever you want, Simon.” She covers her ears and storms from the room.

We both ignore her. I shake my head. “Christ, Baz, why are you so wound up about this?”

“The butter, Simon,” he says in a low, pleading tone. “It’s haunting me. It’s in my dreams–”

“You _should_ be dreaming about butter–”

“They’re nightmares,” he growls. He’s right up in my face, still holding my wrist in a vice grip. So I bridge the small gap between us and kiss him.

It’s good—it’s always good, but especially when it’s like this. When we’re fighting, even over something as trivial as _butter._ My emotions for Baz feel closest to the surface like this. We fought for years; insults are the closest thing we have to a love language.

We used to bicker about butter at Watford, too; he’d say _the way you eat butter is atrocious, you uncultured swine. Learn some manners._ He still says the same thing, except now I can hear the _I love you_ hidden beneath it.

“D’you really hate butter that much?” I murmur against his mouth.

Baz grins wryly, and I kiss the corner of his lip. “I don’t hate it,” he says. He presses himself further against me, his hands moving up to cup my face. “Just the way you… handle it.”

“Handle it, hm?”

“Shut up.”

“Could handle something else…”

I can feel the _something else_ in question pressing into my hip. “Well, maybe now that we’re out of butter,” he says.

“Really, what’s your problem with butter?” I ask.

Baz kisses me again, drops kisses down my neck. “Not butter, just the deplorable things you do with it.”

I push him off by the shoulders. “I’m going to the shop.”

He grabs me by the hips, not giving an inch. “You’re going to the _bedroom.”_

“But the butter–”

Baz fixes me with a piercing stare. “We’re out of butter,” he says slowly, dragging me down the hall. He opens the door to my room without looking and pulls me in. “And it’s going to stay that way.”


End file.
